Red Curls
by Order of the Aether
Summary: A short, introspective piece. Natasha's perspective on her role in the Winter Soldier, among other things. (Romanogers if you squint, set around CA:TWS.)


**A/N: Warm-ups. I wrote this a while back and thought I'd post it, just to keep my momentum going. I'll be adopting a standard of "whatever I can crank out first goes on the site," so expect randomness. I guess this is a poem...ish? Eh. I like it. So here goes.**

* * *

Her hair is bright red, with sweeping curls.

They call their room "Red".

They teach her how to kill and not care.

They raise her as a monster.

And now she has Red in her ledger.

* * *

Her hair is straight, shiny, and ginger.

It's not her true color.

She doesn't care.

He breaks in on her while doing his job.

"Well," she says, "this is awkward."

She's hiding something from him.

She doesn't care. She's doing what she's told.

* * *

Her hair is tangled, matted, and frayed.

There's dirt and concrete chips tangled in her curls.

He's carrying her.

They barely made it out alive.

HYRDA is real. SHIELD is compromised.

They're coming out of the woods and into a city.

Someone will pick up their scent. Someone will be on to them.

He says he knows somewhere they can stay.

* * *

Her hair is newly washed. The curls are coming out.

The water makes it dark red.

It's a good metaphor for how she feels.

Exposed. Unwound.

And stark, blood red.

Red like a cut into the deep veins, not into the surface.

Red where it not only hurts, but wounds.

"Everything okay?" he asks, drying his hands.

The hands that carried her.

The hands that saved her.

"Yeah," she says, drying her curls.

He won't take it.

His eyes are...blue.

And a little bit green.

He asks again.

This time she answers. All along, she says, she lived lies.

The thing she trusted is fallen. Crushed, violated.

"I thought I was going straight," she says.

She was wrong.

He listens.

He saved her.

He must understand this.

"I owe you."

She stares into him.

Looks for a sign he regretted it.

He smiles. "It's okay."

It's not. She knows it's not.

"If our places were reversed," she asks,

(she asks because it's easy to save someone

and harder by far to trust them with yourself

and maybe if he will trust her

then she can believe he can be trusted)

"and it was up to me to save your life—

"would you trust me to do it?"

"I would now," he says.

It's that simple.

It's so simple to him.

Something in her breaks.

It's okay. She didn't need it anyway.

* * *

Her hair is dry. It's still red.

She lifts a hot iron.

Her hand hesitates.

Her reflection hesitates too.

She tried to go straight once.

Can she try again?

No. Maybe not.

The her in the mirror stares back.

(Accusing, red curls.)

She turns off the iron, sets it on the sink.

Breathes.

Breathe.

Maybe she's looking at this wrong.

 _Maybe going straight is never what you do._

She did things.

They didn't take out the red.

She was still used.

It makes her blood boil.

 _Maybe going straight is who you are._

Who is she?

That's complicated.

She thinks of blue eyes with a hint of green.

It's not complicated to him.

 _Maybe going straight is who can trust you._

She shuts her eyes.

The her in the mirror is gone.

The red curls are gone.

It's just her.

She's trusted.

 _Maybe going straight is who you are._

She's worth it.

She opens her eyes.

She can do this.

The iron is still hot.

She puts it around her curls and pulls.

* * *

Her hair is blonde, and brushes her chin.

It's a wig. It's not hers.

She doesn't like it.

First time she gets a chance, she takes off the wig.

Her hair is straight, shiny, and ginger.

Maybe she'll let it be red with curls someday.

Not yet.

For now she'll put red where it belongs.

* * *

The man in the grey suit is dead.

There's red on a white dress shirt.

Good riddance.

* * *

Her hair is straight, shiny, and ginger.

It brushes a dark knit sweater.

She's wearing a smile too.

He wants to know if she's leaving.

His eyes are blue like the sky and green like the trees.

It makes her smile.

"I blew all my covers," she says.

She doesn't regret it.

"I'll have to find new ones."

She leaves.

He watches her go.

He still trusts her.

He's an idiot and an optimist.

 _Maybe the world needs people like that._

There's green in the grass and blue in the sky.

* * *

She wakes up one day.

On her pillow are red and sweeping curls.

There's an iron under the sink.

She doesn't touch it.

There's a brush on the shelf.

That's enough.

Her reflection looks back, a little curious.

It's okay.

After all,

( _red curls_ )

they're hers.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading, guys. Cheers.**


End file.
